


Firetruck

by dark_muse_iris



Series: Call Me Mistress [4]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, BDSM, Baked Goods, Child Death, Christmas, Dom/sub, Dominance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Mommy Kink, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Female Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Second Person, Prostitution, Roleplay, Sex Work, Sexual Content, Smut, Spanking, Sub!Jin, Submission, sub!seokjin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: The Mistress celebrates Christmas with Firetruck, a neurosurgeon who longs for a maternal touch.Excerpt:The soft scribbles of your client's crayons relaxed you, but not enough to lose focus. You knew it was only a matter of time before he would switch tactics and play the brat. It was part of the fun, the thrill of throwing a child’s tantrum, summoning your wrath and subsequent punishment. He was so well-behaved as he sat quietly, focusing intensely on his picture of Frosty the Snowman, that you felt a little nervous, unsure how he would spoil the peaceful moment."You're doing well, Firetruck," you eased, opening the container housing the cookies you made. "Would you like a cookie? A sweetie for my sweetie?""Yes, please," he recited, leaning over his coloring book haphazardly to select a treat.





	Firetruck

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Jin x OC
> 
> Genre: Smut, angst, fluff
> 
> Warning: Sub!Jin, Domme!OC, BDSM, sex work, femdom, sexual themes, mommy kink, ageplay, roleplay, spanking, oral sex, handjob, mentions of death, profanity, holiday cheer, baked goods
> 
> POV: 2nd Person (from the Mistress’ perspective)

Your holiday plans were set in stone with a mid-week chime of your cell phone and a message from Firetruck, your client of nearly a year. It was fair to say you weren't completely sure whether your client would follow through on meeting you Christmas Eve, but you supposed he had to take the time off whenever he could spare it. As a renowned neurosurgeon, your client was frequently on call at the nearby hospital, and thus was one of hardest clients to meet with on a regular basis.

As you reviewed the session’s confirmation and the rather hefty sum transferred to your bank account, you took in a deep breath, unsure whether you should feel excited or sad to play with a client during the holidays. Sure, you wanted to make their session memorable, but you knew working over Christmas was a paltry attempt to fill a bigger need—companionship.

In any case, this was a client you never wanted to miss a session with. Not only was he an interesting customer, but he was one of the few who you felt truly needed and benefited from your services. And as an added bonus, you wouldn’t be alone for the holidays either.

Firetruck's career choice and reputation for being skilled at the operating table had exposed him to rather unbearable levels of stress. The burden of always being on call, paired with paramount responsibility over others' lives, was beginning to take its toll. And while your client was still relatively young in his profession, you suspected the lack of a proper vacation was bound to catch up with him.

His job precluded him from having the time or patience to seek a long-term partner and, ever the surgeon, he sought a precise and effective method to address his needs. It was the need for efficiency which drove the man to seek the services of a professional domme, a companion without any emotional complications.

Truthfully, you were hesitant to take him on as a client when you first met him. It wasn't every day that a physician called your service line. His job alone made you apprehensive: lucrative clients could be dangerous and often required more time for Leo to investigate. Not only that, but he had been very nervous during negotiations, was prone to rambling, and clearly had his own concerns about brokering an arrangement with a sex worker.

After a rather lengthy discussion breaking the ice, he confessed the kink he was interested in was one he didn't want to risk becoming known, especially to the hospital administrators who could end his career. It was an amusing concern to hear at the time, as you suspected at least one or two of those administrators were likewise dabbling into less conventional fare. Upon hearing the word "ageplay" leave your client’s lips, however, you understood why he insisted on discretion.

It wasn't a frequently requested service, to be sure, and consequently the client was willing to pay extra for it. His aim was to hire someone who could not only perform sexual services, but remain in a state of roleplay for several hours—a perpetual actress, a woman who could play a companion, a motherly figure, and a loving domme at the same time.

You drew a hard line at first, refusing to provide services like bottle-feedings and diaper changes, but when the doctor explained he was more interested in playing the role of a schoolboy, you found yourself more willing to agree to his terms. The request made sense in a lot of ways. A man who shouldered so much power and responsibility in public may want to cast it all aside and be taken care of by a maternal figure in private. Pleasant thoughts of childhood could be comforting to any overworked individual. After sympathizing with him, you agreed on the condition that your minimum price would be the overnight rate, which he was more than willing to pay.

And that was how you found yourself standing at the gate of Firetruck's house, clad in a conservative red blouse and mid-length charcoal skirt. You felt like a fraud, dressed like a cookie-cutter housewife, right down to the pearls. Any passerby would have guessed the tray in your hands was baked goods, planned for a Christmas event. It wouldn't have been entirely incorrect. They were holiday cookies, although the "event" in question was a rather unconventional dalliance with a client who loved to see you take on the role of a mother—his mother, specifically.

It was rare for you to work on Christmas, as many of your clients preferred to spend it with their relatives and friends, but the young neurosurgeon was a loner, much like you had been in the last few years. No one was going to drop by and interrupt your fun, and that assurance made slipping into this particular character much easier. The oversized bag weighing heavily on your shoulder held a couple gifts for the evening, and you smirked to yourself as you looked forward to spreading your brand of holiday cheer.

Your polished finger pressed the buzzer at the front gate of his house and you waited, kept company by the fluttering feelings in your stomach you usually felt at the start of any session. The gate opened with a gradual slide, granting entrance, and as your heels tapped along the perfectly level sidewalk leading to his front door, you recited words of encouragement in your head.

_This is going to be fun. A nice, playful evening. Easy money._

The front door opened and you beheld your client's tall figure with great amusement. Dressed in a pastel green, freshly pressed button-up shirt tucked into his long khaki shorts, he looked like a little boy ready to go to Mass—with two exceptions: the bright red Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer bow tie, and the Christmas socks with Santa's sleigh stretched over his large calves.

"Welcome home, Mommy," he greeted with the purest smile.

 _He's missed me_ , you realized.

"Well, don't you look handsome today," you remarked cheerfully, eyes intermittently distracted by his broad shoulders. "Would you mind being Mommy's helper and carry these for me?"

You stepped inside and offered him the tray of cookies. His eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "Are these for me?"

"Of course, sweetheart," you cooed, poking his nose playfully. "I thought I would bring you some homemade Christmas cookies to share. You may have some in your playroom, if you've eaten dinner first...."

Nodding insistently, he assured, "I ate dinner already, Mommy. Right after school."

"Did you eat all your vegetables?"

"Yesss," he stressed impatiently. "You won't let me play if I don't."

"Your mommy wants you to grow up healthy, young man," you reminded him. "Now, would you like to go to your playroom? I have a present for you in my bag."

Instinctively, he reached out for your hand to take his. As his warm, soft palm brushed against yours, he offered a tender squeeze, then led the way down the hallway toward his playroom, the primary location for your sessions together.

Your client's playroom was as vibrantly colored and busy looking as you last remembered it. Model airplanes dangled from hooks in the ceiling and appeared to be flying out of a young boy's imagination. The walls were lined with mounted shelves, the resting place for action figures and toys ranging from dinosaurs to robots to superheroes. Beneath the shelves, no higher than four feet from the ground, were endless drawings and finished pages torn from coloring books—all showcasing his interests from the past several months. You could tell he had been working hard to display new pictures on the walls, as several drawings of spaceships and wild animals had been added since your last visit. The large crafts table at the center of the room was littered with coloring books on various subjects—including fire trucks, which was your client's favorite interest and thus his alias and safeword.

Everything in the room reflected a snapshot in time from his youth, an endearing memory he clung to, characterized by less responsibility, more curiosity, and endless distraction. The only item which reflected your presence in his life was a large spanking paddle hanging on the wall adjacent to the crafts table. A present from you for his birthday, the wooden slab housed several holes of varying size, each opening easing the laws of physics to deliver a swift punishment when needed. The long edge of the paddle was neatly branded "Persuasion for a Naughty Boy" to serve as a reminder that one was expected to behave, especially when Mommy was home.

"I see you've added more fire trucks to the wall," you began. "Are they still your favorite?"

"Yes," he answered with enthusiasm, pointing to a few of the new additions. "These are from Europe."

"Have you been studying other countries since Mommy's been gone?"

"Just the fire trucks," he chuckled.

You opened your shoulder bag and retrieved a delicately wrapped present, adorned with silver snowflake stickers. Handing it to Firetruck, you instructed gently, "Go on, you can open it now."

Tucking his thumbs into the corners of the packaging, he made a long, satisfying tear at the festive paper to reveal a fresh box of crayons.

"You remembered," he uttered in a low tone, staring lovingly at the gift.

"Yes, you said you wanted more colors than the standard set, so I got them for you. I think these can hold you over until your birthday, hm?"

He paused, contemplating the fact you remembered a statement in passing from the month before. Then he carefully placed the box of crayons on the crafts table and turned to open his arms, closing the distance to give you a hug. Deviating from the standard way of embracing as an adult, he lowered his head onto your chest and looped his strong arms around your lower back, locking them behind you like a pitiful creature in need of protection.

"Thank you, Mommy," he responded in a small, childlike voice. "I'm glad you're here having Christmas with me."

Threading your fingers into the dark strands of hair close to his neck, you hummed affectionately, "You're welcome, sweetheart. No one should be alone on Christmas."

Your hand rubbed over his back tenderly a few moments, then you asked, "What would you like to do today?"

Lifting his head from the warmth of your bosom, he replied, "Can we color together and have cookies? I want to use my new crayons."

"Of course,” you agreed, straightening his bow tie. “Do you still have my coloring book?"

Your client turned away and began searching his room with an air of youthful curiosity.

"Ummm...," he playfully jested, sorting through a stack of books on his crafts table. "Found it!"

Handing you the half-used coloring book entitled  _Fairies of the Forest_ , he offered a beaming expression at having kept it unchanged since you last saw him. You took a seat in one of the child-sized chairs next to the table, crossing your legs at your ankles to maintain a conservative appearance.

Firetruck sat across from you and scattered fresh colors across the table's wooden surface. "We can share them, if you want."

A warm smile spread across your features at his manners. He looked pleased by your response, grinning to himself as he shrugged his shoulders playfully. The lighthearted exchange let you know the session was going well so far, as you both were remaining true to character with minimal distractions.

Admittedly, you enjoyed your sessions with him. In many ways, it was like being paid to take a break and relax. You suspected that life had been difficult for him lately, especially given the time of year and where he worked. As a result, he took full advantage of the non-sexual services you provided: conversation, companionship, the charade of a different kind of life. It was understandable why a man with such a stressful job would want to turn back the hands of time, but part of you felt sad it was necessary.

As you sat at his crafts table, you allowed yourself to slip into the gentle tasks of deciding how to shade the sleeping fairy's flowing hair, how to color her dress, how to embellish the nest she was sleeping in.  _I should get some of these_ , you mused to yourself, mentally noting that adult coloring books were socially acceptable now. You could forgive yourself for wanting to have them as a seasoned adult, for all the therapeutic benefits they provided.

The soft scribbles of your client's crayons relaxed you, but not enough to lose focus. You knew it was only a matter of time before he would switch tactics and play the brat. It was part of the fun, the thrill of throwing a child’s tantrum, summoning your wrath and subsequent punishment. He was so well-behaved as he sat quietly, focusing intensely on his picture of Frosty the Snowman, that you felt a little nervous, unsure how he would spoil the peaceful moment.

"You're doing well, Firetruck," you eased, opening the container housing the cookies you made. "Would you like a cookie? A sweetie for my sweetie?"

"Yes, please," he recited, leaning over his coloring book haphazardly to select a treat.

You went a little overboard again and baked two kinds of cookies. One was a chewy gingersnap, dialed back enough on the sugar to almost pass for a breakfast food. It was a cookie you felt the doctor would appreciate with his morning coffee. The man before you playing the role of a youth, however, would undoubtedly select the other choice—the Rice Krispies cookie shaped like a holiday wreath, blessed with frosting.

As you predicted, your client chose the more festive cookie and stuffed it in his mouth with one exaggerated bite. He stored the sweet bits in his cheeks like a chipmunk, then resumed the task of finishing Frosty.

"You're doing well, staying in the lines," you commented, taking one of the gingersnap cookies for yourself.

He swallowed the mouthful and held up his half-finished picture. "What color should Frosty's scarf be? Blue or red?"

"Hm," you pretended to consider the choices on equal footing. "I like red."

"Yeah," he agreed, selecting a red tube from the crayon box. "I like red too."

The tip of his new crayon pressed into the paper and you became increasingly aware of how forcefully he was coloring. Each stroke of the wax discharged crimson pigment along Frosty's neck, with excess shavings of color dispersing across otherwise clean paper.

 _I should have bought thicker crayons_ , you considered, knowing he would make short work of the new ones he had just received.

And then—a snap. As soon as you noted the need for thicker, more durable crayons, you witnessed the inevitable end of the red crayon, broken in Firetruck's hand. You were well aware the neurosurgeon had the dexterity to color properly, to press with the minimum effort required to fill the lines. The sulking pout displayed on your client's face told you everything; he meant to reject the expectation of using the crayons properly. He would rebel and spoil the peace in the hopes of garnering a chastisement from you.

"I broke it," he frowned, his eyes looking in your direction to gauge your response.

You chose your words carefully, mentally preparing for the next steps in the roleplay. "Well, that's what happens when you press down too hard, honey."

He huffed, "Fix it."

 _So, it's going to be like this, hm?_  You felt the tickle of amusement in your belly.

"We can't fix it," you replied in a tone of forced calmness. "You'll just have to color with pieces of the crayon. But it still works, see?" You demonstrated by shading a flower on your picture with a broken end.

"But I want a new one, Mommy," he protested.

"You can't have a new one. Besides, you have other red crayons. Use those instead."

In a flash, his arm swiped across the table and flung the new box of colors on the floor. The sound of scattering paraffin wax tubes filled your ears as you felt the involuntary irritation due to his rudeness warm your cheeks.

"Firetruck," you warned, pointing your finger at the vibrant chaos he had created. "You're going to pick those up and you're going to finish your picture quietly—or you'll be punished."

Your client's face grew flushed as he held up his book angrily. "I colored outside of the lines! He's ugly now!"

He began to rip the page away from the book and crumple it into a ball. Then he aggressively chucked it across the room at the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

"One," you spoke firmly.

"I want new crayons!"

You took a deep inhale of breath. "Two."

Firetruck flattened his hand and pushed the tray of cookies onto the floor. Thankfully, the lid was on, but the act itself was nonetheless defiant and reckless. He wanted to be punished, and meant to go on and on until it was served upon him.

"Three," you barked, flying from your seat to grab the wooden paddle from the wall. Your client turned as if to run from you, but he wasn't fast enough to stop you from grabbing him by the ear and twisting it with the ferocity of a woman who would discipline her child without remorse.

"Ow!" he shrieked, swinging his arms as you dragged him back to your seat and forced his large body to hang over your legs.

Digging your fingers into the waistband of his trousers, you yanked down his shorts and underwear, exposing his bare ass to the threat of the wooden paddle in your right hand. Pressing the flat side of the paddle against his flesh, you heard his breath hitch in anticipation of what was to come.

"You've been a naughty boy," you scolded. "Do you know why you're going to be punished?"

"I want new crayo—

"You're being punished because you flung your crayons and pushed Mommy's cookies onto the floor," you informed in an authoritative tone. "So, you're going to get spanked until you learn your lesson."

Without giving your client a chance for rebuttal, you delivered the first swing of the paddle with a loud smack against his buttocks. The sound was a sharp crack, no doubt from the holes drilled into the broad side of it. You knew it stung from the way he whimpered immediately.

His body stiffened as he waited on the second blow. When it struck him, his hips shifted and he whined again, bracing his arms against the side of your left thigh.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, swatting again unapologetically, feeling the recoil of the instrument in your wrist.

He arched his back as he anticipated the next strike with bated breath. "Yes, Mommy."

"That's what you being selfish feels like."

You delivered another smack and heard Firetruck begin to mumble under his breath. His waist pressed deliberately against your legs again, and this time you felt it—the stiffening cock between his legs, the sign he was enjoying his punishment very much. Smiling to yourself, you increased the intensity of your swing and struck again.

"Is there something you'd like to say to me?" you inquired in a low hum, before landing another blow against his reddening ass.

"Ungh," he groaned. "Please Mommy, teach me a lesson."

A chuckle arose in your throat. "You like being taught a lesson, don't you?"

Another hard crack of the wood sounded against his flesh.

"Ah—yes!" he confessed, relishing the fresh sting.

"You like being a naughty boy?" you raised your voice. "You would have broken every last one of my cookies to get punished! Isn't that right?"

Another blow.

"Harder Mommy," he urged, arching his back again. "Please punish me!"

You flexed your shoulder and delivered repeated smacks of the paddle against his ass. Over and over and over, without restraint, without rest. Your client wailed like a child in rebellion, throwing a tumultuous tantrum, but you knew that with each aching strike you administered, he was subconsciously healing somewhere in his head. He wasn't the first submissive to ask for pain to this degree, and although it would hurt to sit for hours and his ass would have welts the size of saucers, you felt like you were helping him. The pain would assist in getting over whatever burdensome stress had persuaded the doctor to hire you in the first place.

Admittedly, you lost count of the number of spanks given. Your shoulder felt the ache setting in, but it paled in comparison to the soreness he was probably feeling. His voice was weakened and low, as the energy from his tirade had waned considerably. His body felt feeble over your legs, save for the erection that remained eagerly present.

You gently patted the warm flesh, searing with pain, and coaxed him to pull himself upright. The doctor’s eyes were watering from the punishment and his cheeks were flushed in deepening shades of pink, but he was docile.

"I'm sorry about your cookies, Mommy," he apologized with a pouty lower lip.

Puckering your lips, you planted a chaste kiss on his forehead and stroked his hair with a tender touch. "It's okay, sweetheart. You just have to learn to control your temper next time. Not everything is going to go your way in life."

He nodded like a young charge who had learned his lesson, then leaned forward to peck your cheek and wrap his arms around your neck. Your hands moved to caress his back affectionately, like a mother after forgiving a child of all transgressions. Of course, you understood the soft moment would pass quickly. Firetruck was still hard, noticeably so, and it was only a matter of time before he would be interested in finding relief like any other client.

As he began to pull his arms away, he kissed your neck, right beneath your earlobe. "I'm hungry, Mommy," he whispered.

 _Ah, there it is_ , you mused, recognizing the shift in play from the sinful tone of his voice.

"Oh? Would you like another cookie?" you played along, knowing it wasn't a confection he was seeking.

"Nu-uh," he replied, planting another soft press of his lips against your skin. "I want to eat from Mommy."

An aching throb knocked a little too strongly between your legs, and you wavered, grappling with the need to stay in character and the converse desire to be pleasured by any means available to you.

Speaking resolutely, you responded, "What do you mean? You have to be specific in your request. Use your words, darling."

You felt his long fingers trace up to the top button of your blouse and tug on it. "I want Mommy's milk."

_Fuck._

You struggled with the proposition in your mind like a tug-of-war. It was uncommon for him to ask to pleasure you, as your play for months prior had been centered on him. Your skillful hands hadn't addressed his primal needs yet, and he wasn't asking for it either, as was customary. Something was off, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. Perhaps he wanted a change in play, but couldn't figure out how to articulate that specifically. Perhaps he was testing you to see how far you would go within the arrangement you had. Either way, you weren't in a position to refuse when your baser instincts wanted nothing more than to let him have his way.

A tightening feeling filled your throat as your fingers plucked the buttons of your red blouse, opening the swells of your chest to his view. Pulling the lace of your bra down over your breast, you presented the object of his desire like a mother about to nurse after a long day of work.

Lifting his hand up, he tried to grab the breast which was still covered, prompting you to pop his hand with a swift smack, refusing access to the metaphorical cookie jar.

"You'll eat what you're given, or you’ll get nothing," you warned.

Your client smirked, slipping from character for an instant, before redirecting his hands to the sides of your thighs and opening his plump, pink lips to latch onto your breast. Feeling him tug at your nipple like a suckling babe summoned a myriad of mixed thoughts. On one hand, you felt the bloom of affection, the bond forming between you as he knelt on the ground and took from you in polite subservience, thankful for the charade of receiving food from his mother. Admittedly, you were appreciative of how tenderly he pulled your stiffening bud into his mouth, grazing your sensitive nerves with his tongue at intervals of his choosing. On the other hand, however, you couldn't deny the insatiable ache rooting itself in your mind as you looked down at your client and saw the hunger in his eyes, the darkening need to communicate his desires in as few words as possible.

Peering into the deep, coffee-colored pools only intensified your own wants. You wanted to cut the game short and get what you needed, especially when you felt his large hands crawl at a snail's pace up your thighs as he continued his ministrations.  _Stay in character_ , you reminded yourself and your dampening panties, as you carded your fingers into the dark locks of his hair and tugged gently, gleaning a small whine from the back of his throat that vibrated gently against you.

"You like Mommy's milk, don't you?" you cooed, narrowing your eyes possessively at the man kneeling before you.

Firetruck responded by sucking with more intensity and nodding his head. His eyes widened with the feigned innocence of a baby lamb, and you couldn't deny to your innermost thoughts how powerful it made you feel. You were the ultimate authority in his life in that moment, the sole provider of the one thing he wanted, and in all your benevolence as his pretend-mother, you chose to care for him, to lavish him with tender caresses as he continued to suckle.

Your chest began to lift in soft, panting breaths when his eyes shifted toward your neglected breast, still locked in its lace cage. He made a small noise and batted his eyelashes as he silently requested permission to play with it, and you would have laughed at his boldness if you weren't shifting your thighs from the degree of unhinged attraction growing between you.

"Fine...," you huffed playfully, pulling your other breast from the confines of your bra and offering it to him. As he shifted his focus, you widened your legs slightly, stretching the fabric of your skirt near its limit as you provided a larger space for him to squeeze between. You mentally forgave yourself for bending your character as he pressed his body closer to yours, moving his hands to grasp your hips firmly. Grazing your untended breast with his teeth, he brought forth a new level of irresistible craving in your body. He exhaled, wafting a hot breath against you before tracing his tongue from the base of your breast to your areola, drawing slow, teasing circles—then hungrily latching his lips.

The moan that squeezed through your teeth was minuscule, but you knew he heard it the moment it slipped because he swiftly pulled you from your seat and sat you on the edge of his crafts table, railing against the prescribed rules. Your ears took in the shuffling of papers, as the colorful drawings he loved were now trapped beneath you as your skirt rode up and up, threatening to expose you further.

Your client renewed his efforts to increase your pleasure, reattaching to your breast and moaning softly against it, letting the vibrations of his voice carry you to a higher plane. He was losing his nerve, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he would ask to be relieved at last. The room grew warmer among the smacking noises of his lips and the strained pants of your breathing. A part of your brain was begging for it to be over before you lost your resolve and broke character. You didn’t want to spoil the illusion—but you didn’t want him to stop.

"Can I eat Mommy's pussy?"

The question sliced through the air like a sharp blade, and you wondered if your intoxicated brain was so high on your own needs that it didn’t process what he actually said.

"What?" you asked, pressing your hands to the table to ground yourself.

 _His pupils are dilated_.

"Can I eat your pussy?"

_I heard it right the first time. Fuck...we haven't...goddammit...._

" _Can_  denotes ability.  _May_  denotes permission," you recited, trying to stall him long enough to collect your thoughts so you could address his request properly. "Ask again."

He flattened his palms against the curve of your ass and you felt the tension come to a head as he lifted his lips to the shell of your ear and whispered the corrected question.

"May I eat Mommy's pussy?"

Your core sustained a low throb at his words, but it didn't overpower the alarms ringing in your consciousness. Oral sex had not been brokered properly.

"Lighthouse."

His body went rigid against yours upon hearing your safeword, the one you used to stop the roleplay and speak to him directly as his equal. He pulled back and released you from his hold, then sat back on his heels, waiting on your instructions.

"Why do you want to?" you questioned, your breath uneven. “We haven’t negotiated this. You’ve never asked for this until now. What’s going on?”

Your client expelled a deep sigh and shifted the erection trapped in his shorts. "I want to make you feel good. You never come, and I want you to."

His voice sounded pained, and it made you feel conflicted. It was undeniable, how much you wanted to be selfish, but you couldn't let your inhibitions rule your business. You were at work, no matter how much you were enjoying it. Your wants and needs would never come before the client's negotiated arrangement.

Your thoughts were interrupted by his voice. "Please, say yes," he pleaded softly, like a man on the brink of rejection. "Let me do this for you and treat you like you deserve."

It was a weird feeling, being cut to the core by the words of your client. You felt exposed in a way that rendered you truly vulnerable and, in a rare display, you weren't sure if the decision you were about to make was the right one.

Swallowing the prickly lump forming in your throat, you tucked your breasts back into your lace bra and answered with utmost clarity so you wouldn't be misunderstood.

"I'm letting this happen,  _but_  this is as far as I'll allow tonight, understand? This isn't a gateway to a nice fuck for you. That's not what we agreed upon, and you know the rules, Doctor. You, of all people, know why they exist."

He nodded his head, relieved you hadn't rejected him as he suspected you would. "I understand. I just really wanted to give this to you."

Your eyes traced to the straining bulge in his shorts. "And you want the handjob like we usually do, I'm assuming? I can take care of you first, if you prefer."

"I'd rather give first, then receive. Is that okay?"

 _I need one like him for myself_ , you confessed in the privacy of your thoughts.

"You must really want to please tonight," you commented jokingly. “You’d better be clean.”

He smirked. "Well, you started making noises and I wanted to hear more. And yes, I’m clean."

A blush waxed across your features, compelling you to straighten up and refocus. "Don't make me regret breaking my rules for you. I'm considering this a low-risk Christmas exception."

"I won't, I promise," he assured, shuffling his knees to close the distance between your bodies again.

You held a breath when his hands reclaimed their home on the sides of your thighs. "Do you want to go back into character?" you inquired.

Firetruck's eyes showed a spark of playfulness as he grinned. "Please."

Returning the expression to your client, you warned, "Don't disappoint me," hiking up your skirt above your hips.

He chuckled, slipping his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peeling them down your bare legs with the dexterity of a seasoned lover. "Yes Mommy."

Contrary to your expectations, Firetruck didn't waste time with a half-assed tease. There were no light pecks trailing up your thighs as other clients may have attempted had they been in his position. You gave a directive that he wasn't to disappoint you, and he complied with your demands by swiftly dipping his head close to your heat and slipping his tongue between your folds with no reservation or sense of propriety.

Your body flinched under the surprise of his intense effort. The lids of your eyes fluttered close as you planted your palms flat against the surface of the crafts table and widened your legs further apart, welcoming him to continue the task. As his hands kneaded gently against your thighs, his tongue stiffened and spread flat, offering firm and deep sweeps against your sex that summoned a groan from within your chest.

"You're such a good boy...," you praised, barely recognizing your own voice. "Keep going."

The man responded with a small grunt and lifted your left leg to drape over his pastel green shirt. His right palm widened as he anchored his hand beneath your leg and drove his face further into your folds, brushing the tip of his nose against your clit like he was giving it an Eskimo kiss. Instinctively, the degree of closeness motivated you to raise your hand to thread your fingers into your client's hair, massaging his scalp to communicate your gratitude as he continued his onslaught.

It was clear the man feasting from between your legs understood the female anatomy as thoroughly as the brain when he managed to swell your inner labia in such a short amount of time. You brushed it off in your head, saying it had been a while for you, but you knew it was a lie—and you sharply rebuked yourself for that lie when his tongue pressed forward to pleasure your clit with skilled precision. Each swirl of his tongue against your clitoral hood made you lightheaded. You craved more movement, the chance to use his beautiful, pliant face to serve you fully, to get what you needed once and for all.

Taking a chance on him and trusting he could finish the job without need for instructions, you released a deep exhale and leaned away from him, resting your back against the half-finished coloring books and crayons scattered across the table. The heel which had dangled against his shoulder blade fell from your foot and hit the ground with a plop, but you could barely hear it. You were too focused on your client’s fingertips traveling up the sides of your stomach and weaving beneath your back, coaxing it to arch and lift from the table.

When he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked tenderly, you knew you were a goner. There was no escaping the wave of pleasure barreling toward you, and knowing your impending release would soil Firetruck's Christmas bow tie only made the need for release more palpable. A moan escaped between your panting breaths and your hands slid hurriedly to the swells of your breasts to squeeze them.

_God, I'm going to grind on his pretty face before this is over, fuck..._

"Mommy...," he grunted with a rasp in his voice as he opened his warm, coffee-colored eyes and bored into yours.

The desperation of his call made your clit pulse, and you cursed its response before he enveloped the swollen bud with his lips and sucked with more passion. You spewed profanities under your breath until you lost your will and swung your leg off his shoulder and shook off your remaining heel. You were so close, you were hellbent on getting what you knew was within your reach.

Bracing your feet against the surface of the table, you raised your hips and began to undulate them slowly as you felt the room start to spin.

"God, I'm close," you warned, hearing the shake in your voice. Your palms braced against the wooden surface to anchor your body and keep you steady. "You're so good to Mommy,  _so_   _good_...."

Your client repositioned his arms to support your body and pleaded against your soaked flesh, "Come on my tongue, Mommy."

He stiffened his wet muscle and rocked his face repeatedly, encouraging you to get off in a way that would leave him covered in your juices. It was wholly obscene, but there was no denying how powerful you felt as you gave him what he wanted and used his face as leverage to chase your end. His groans spurred you on as your body rolled and rushed against his tongue and chin.

Moaning shamelessly, you surrendered to your body and plunged into the depths of your desires and came with an all-consuming shock wave that made tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the doctor’s model airplanes from your sight.

Firetruck hummed in delight as your rolls slowed and you raised yourself from the table, gripped his hair with your hands and gently instructed, "Clean up Mommy really good, young man. That's it."

"Yes, ma'am," he recited, then resumed licking his soft, pink tongue up and down along every crevice of your sex as you sighed and stroked his hair tenderly like a loving parent.

After a few moments regaining your composure and offering soft praises to your client, you whispered, "Unbutton your shorts, darling."

He stood tall and unfastened his shorts, presenting a painful looking erection, already leaking at the tip.

"My pee-pee is broken," he pouted. "Can you fix it?"

Tracing your fingernail deftly along a swollen vein on the underside of his length, you proposed, "If you say pretty please."

"Pretty pleeaaase," he dragged out his words, "with a cherry on top?"

"Sit next to me," you directed, patting the empty space beside you on the table. "Mommy will take care of your boo-boo."

As Firetruck took a seat, you were able to see from the close proximity that his chin was still partially coated with your arousal.  _Let him wear it_ , you thought with amusement, noting he was wearing even more on his bow tie. Well, Rudolph was wearing it now.

Spitting a liberal amount of spit into the palm of your hand, you prepared to deliver your client to the same end he had brought you to moments earlier. You felt relaxed, completely at ease, thanks to him. You were looking forward to reciprocating with the same level of dedication and care.

His cock jumped the moment you took it into your hand. Planting a chaste kiss on his cheek, you asked, "Have you missed Mommy taking care of you?"

"Mm, very much," he answered as he felt the first pull of your palm along his flesh. A deep sigh of relief blew past his lips and he scooted closer to you, pressing his thigh flush against yours.

Your freshly manicured fingers wrapped around his shaft and increased in tempo, stretching and sliding his skin with enough pressure to make him squeeze his eyes closed and tilt his head back. You wanted him to lose himself, and tonight it felt like it would be an easy task. You couldn't put your finger on it as to why. Perhaps it was the yearning to be with someone on Christmas. Perhaps he was riled up from pleasuring you earlier. In any case, you were determined to break him—and the rapid rises and falls of his chest told you it wouldn't be a long delay.  

It was a rare occasion to regret your prescribed rules of play. But tonight, you were starting to, watching Firetruck tremble as your hand continued to sweep up and down along his dick, twisting gently around the swollen head with each pass. If you had been working as you had in your old pre-Mistress days, a skillfully executed blowjob would crack someone as wound up as your client was in that moment. It was too bad, as your rules precluded you from performing any submissive activities—even though you wanted to, just this once, to thank him for what he had given you. But you had assumed enough risk tonight.

In a compromise with yourself, you pressed your lips into a tight ring and blew a cool breeze over the sensitive head of his dick. His head returned upright as his eyes opened to behold your teasing act. Blowing another puff of air, you smiled and said nothing. The cold air made the act of finishing him increasingly difficult, as your hand became tacky and prone to chafing. 

Sucking against the sides of your mouth, you curled your tongue and leaned over his lap, releasing a dollop of spit that landed expertly on the tip and ran down the underside of his shaft. His mouth fell agape at the sight of it and your insides twisted with delight. You renewed your efforts to usher him toward his end, gripping with a firmer hold.

"Someday you're going to make a woman very happy. But I'll always be your mommy and you'll always be my young man."

"Yes, ma'am," he panted, blinking as he grew harder in your hand, rapidly approaching his climax.

Batting your eyelashes at him, you pressed on. "Are you going to make a big mess for Mommy?"

"Mhm," he whined, his forehead perspiring. "I'm gonna make a big—a huge mess."

"Make me a mess, sweetheart," you cooed, dragging your fingers over his cock urgently.

"Mommy-ahh!" he moaned loudly, sputtering translucent bursts of semen in your grip like a lubricious fountain.

"That's my boy," you praised cheerfully, slowing your hand as he chewed on his bottom lip and creased his brows, enjoying the last moments of his release.

He leaned his head on your shoulder and rested there for several peaceful minutes, letting his breath and heart rate return to normalcy.

"Are you proud of my mess?" he asked in a small voice, ever the playful client.

"Of course, baby," you answered, offering another peck on his cheek. "I’ll always be proud of you. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?"

* * *

 

The aftercare activity for Firetruck was definitely one of the most creative you had brokered among your clients: bath time, with bubbles. When he first requested it many months ago, you were skeptical of the benefits. The purpose of aftercare was to relax and come down from whatever activities the session had featured, and you felt that any prolonged washing of certain limbs would only rile him up again.

Much to your surprise, however, bath time became one of the most effective forms of relaxation for your client. It was the primary time when he would talk about his job, his plans for the house, whatever was on his mind that night. Something about the hot water made him open up, and you found the baths to be therapeutic for him, much like they were for you. In addition, soaking in the tub also relieved aching muscles, which was par for the course lately when you played with him, especially if the paddle was used as hard as he preferred.

Tonight, Firetruck was less talkative than he usually was. He sat in the warm water, covered in suds and holding a toy fire truck, his favorite, but it appeared as though his mind was distracted elsewhere.

"Lean your head back for me," you whispered, kneeling by the side of the tub with a large cup of water. The man let his toy sink to the bottom with a thud as he leaned backwards and closed his eyes, preparing for the restorative waterfall to cascade over his scalp.

Flipping open the cap of his salon-grade shampoo, you made small talk to check on him. "How has school been lately? Have you been getting along with the other kids?"

You massaged his hair, creating a rich lather. He frowned at the question, and you suspected that the off-feelings you had detected all night were tied to work.

"I don't like school," he pouted, picking up the fire truck again and skimming it across the soapy water.

"You used to like school," you gently grazed the topic. "Perhaps there's just too much homework right now and you need more time to play."

"Yeah."

He slumped in the tub, looking forlorn and broken. You were unsure how to continue, as he was more upbeat and talkative in the playroom. Now in the tub, he was burdened with reflection, unable to mask his heavy sighs.

Pressing your fingers into his scalp with more intensity, you sought to ease his troubled mind. "You must have a couple days off of school, right?"

"Tomorrow and the next day," he answered, relaxing his shoulders as you continued to rub his head.

You scooped the cup under the water's soapy surface and tilted his chin back, then poured the water over his head again, rinsing out the shampoo. "How about a lazy day tomorrow? You can stay in your jammies and relax on the couch, maybe watch a movie."

He nodded and wiped his eyes, "I wish you could stay with me another day, Mommy."

 _Something is really wrong_ , you thought with a pang of sadness.

"I do too, sweetheart, but we can take some extra time together when I see you again. Maybe I'll bring a movie and we can have a lazy day together," you suggested, letting your client know you were up for a multiple-day session if that was what he needed.

Firetruck gave you a soft smile and replied, "I'd like that a lot."

* * *

 

After his bath, you helped your client into his onesie Christmas pajamas, selected for the special occasion, and tucked him into his large bed. His eyelids were droopy with the need for sleep, so you sat on the edge of the bed next to him, leaning over as you stroked his head tenderly under the warm glow of the lamp atop his nightstand.

"I hope you sleep well tonight, sweetheart," you murmured.

"Firetruck."

Your hand pulled away. "Yes?"

"Can we end the play and speak like adults?" he asked, with hesitation in his voice.

"Okay," you eased, curious as to why he would ask for that so late in the session. "What's on your mind?"

The man shifted further underneath the covers, but untucked his arms and folded them over his belly, like he was preparing to share quite a lot.

"I wanted to thank you for agreeing to meet tonight. I know it was shorter notice than I usually give but," he paused to take a deep swallow, "I lost a patient on the operating table a few days ago. A little girl, only seven years old."

 _Oh no_ , you thought, feeling a heavy drop in your stomach as you finally realized why your client had been acting strangely. You weren't sure the best way to react to his words. Surely a surgeon understood losing a patient was part of the job. The only solution was to tread as carefully as possible. The last thing you wanted was to wound him further.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I've never lost one that young," he continued, staring at the ceiling as he relived the moment in his memories. "I've been replaying it in my mind all week, performing the surgery again and again to see if I made a mistake somewhere."

Taking his hand in yours, you squeezed it gently. "I'm really sorry. I imagine it's a heavy burden on you."

An agonizing expression waxed across his features. "I don't know how much longer I can do this job...."

Your client looked to be on the verge of tears, and your heart ached for him. It wasn't the first time a client confessed they were thinking about leaving their job, but this man was a neurosurgeon—and a gifted one at that.

"I know it's not my place to tell you what career choices to make, Doctor," you gently replied, "but I don't think one loss—which was likely out of your hands—negates all the other lives you've saved, or will save in the future. It's a tragedy to lose a patient, but you shouldn't let it overstay its welcome. You have so much more to offer."

You placed your hand gingerly over his, squeezing it again to further communicate your point. Clutching your fingers, he brought your hand up to his lips and pecked them sweetly, planting a small kiss on each finger.

"Do you need me to stay with you tonight? I know Christmas can be hard for loners like us," you remarked.

"I appreciate it, but I think I'll be okay," he answered. "I'll be sleeping well because of you."

You smiled at him and stood from his bed, turning to pull the chain on his bedside lamp.

"Thank you for letting me pleasure you," he murmured. "I don’t even know your name, but I know you didn't have to let me. It made me really happy that you did."

The surface of your cheeks heated up as you reminisced the exchange on his crafts table. You cleared your throat to scatter the hazy thoughts that were percolating in your mind once again.

“It’s Catherine,” you shared. “Just don’t share that, please.”

“Catherine,” he repeated. “Very traditional.”

“Catholic family,” you commented. “They would kill me if they knew this was how I spent Christmas. But I enjoyed it, probably more than I should have."

"Was it weird, staying in character for the oral sex?"

The corners of your mouth turned upward. "Your words may have been a child's, but your tongue was a man's."

He chuckled. "You spoil me."

"I like spoiling you," you flirted, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. "I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, Doctor."

Your client yawned as his slumber approached, slurring his words. "You too, Catherine. You deserve it."

* * *

 

Your stroll into Firetruck's living room was illuminated by the lights of his Christmas tree. Tastefully arranged, with matching ornaments, the tree looked like it had been plucked from an interior decorating catalog—but it lacked personal touch. There were no special ornaments commemorating life events, his favorite things, his youthful nature. It was saddening in a way, the sterility of the tree which was a reflection of his lack of personal ties. You wished he would find someone worth sharing his life with, but you understood more than most why that wasn't always in the cards for everyone.

Opening your shoulder bag and slipping your fingers into its depths, you retrieved a tiny trinket, one last gift. A small smile perked up your cheeks as you held up a new ornament—a shiny red fire truck—with a customized tag that read, "From Santa's Little Helper." It was amusing, the lengths you went in order to make sessions special for your clients, but you never regretted the effort. You hung the ornament at eye level, pleased with the way it stuck out like a sore thumb, clashing with the decorative theme of the rest of the tree.

 _He’ll definitely notice when he looks at the tree again_ , you thought.

You exited your client's house, feeling the chill of the night air on your legs. As you headed toward his gate, you logged your session into a new voice note:

"Client Firetruck. Met on Christmas Eve following short-notice request for a session. Emotional vulnerability due to stress at work may yield additional sessions; should prioritize. Possible need to renegotiate sexual boundaries after receiving oral sex. Schedule clinic visit for screening.”


End file.
